Chapter Thirteen
Sledge
I couldn’t sleep. Eliana was curled up against my chest, soft and warm, her leg tangled with mine, her soft breaths fanning over my skin like a goddamn lullaby. But my mind wouldn’t shut off. Every fucking time I closed my eyes, the only thing I saw was Zoya’s drawings.
That dark smoky figure that lurked on the outer edges of my little girl’s mind.
Trish was always there but it was clear from the drawings she’d been uninvolved in raising Zoya, in loving her.
Hell, I doubted she even remembered she had a kid most of the time.
Eliana hadn’t noticed, probably because she came from a stable and loving home, but I’d seen it all.
Trish was there but oblivious to the way the shadow stretched towards Zoya as if it was threatening to swallow her whole. It didn’t take a fucking psychology degree to know she was terrified of something and someone.
And then that fucking phone call? It could only be Trish, because the bitch traveled on a cloud of chaos. But why was she calling now? Why, after years of silence, was she calling me?
Because she’s a fucking chaos goblin.
I wouldn’t let her fuck up Zoya. Not again.
I eased out from under Eliana, careful not to wake her. She made a soft moaning sound in her sleep and reached for me. For a second, I almost gave in. Almost let myself stay in bed with her and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.
But it did exist and it would invade no matter what, which meant I had to be ready.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed to text Slate.
Me: Need a list of anyone who was arrested with Trish since Zoya’s birth. Known associates, dealers, cellmates, johns, anybody. And especially anybody who shared an address with her.
Slate: On it.
His response was short and quick. He didn’t ask questions because he knew I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.
I turned to watch Eliana, asleep with a small smile on her face.
She was an unexpected treasure in my life.
Not only was she slowly, but surely, bringing Zoya out of her shell but she was more than I gave her credit for.
She’d seen the connections in what Zoya couldn’t yet say and showed it to me, even when I didn’t want to see it.
She blinked until her eyes opened on my face. A sleepy smile touched her lips. “Morning,” she said sleepily and sat up, noticing my grim expression and stiff posture. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lied. “Just some shit on my mind and I needed to get Slate to look into it.”
She rubbed her eyes, nodding as she laid a supportive hand on my shoulder. “Zoya’s mom and the smoke man?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “But I don’t want to talk about her or him, not while I’ve got a gorgeous, naked woman in my bed.”
Her lips curved up, a soft, sleepy smile that wrapped around my heart like a vise. “Gorgeous and naked? Lucky you.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” I told her as I yanked her close, letting my hands slide up her naked curves.
In seconds I was wrapped up in her, everything else around me forgotten.
The next few hours passed in a blur of heat and movement, slow and hungry.
I took her, hard and slow, my favorite kind of fuck because the sounds she made kept my dick hard.
Every stroke she let out these low, strangled sounds that shot straight to my balls.
I sucked her nipples, back and forth, biting until she did that breathless squeal thing that sounded right before she came apart all around my cock.
“Damn,” she sighed, her whole body vibrating as my cock emptied into her body.
“I’m gonna pass out, I think,” she laughed.
Seconds later she drifted off with her head on my chest, her hand resting so close to my cock that neither of us could sleep.
But Eliana slept peacefully and the sounds of her soft, even breathing kept me calm enough to think, since I couldn’t fucking sleep.
When the sun finally rose, I knew I wasn’t going to the clubhouse today. I would stay close for both Zoya and Eliana. They needed me today and it was about fucking time I stepped up.
Zoya and I made pancakes, which gave Eliana time to work on her dissertation. For some reason she chose to work in the kitchen, smiling each time Zoya overfilled the measuring cups.
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “A little extra sugar is just what pancakes need.”
Zoya smiled at me and poured the baking powder into the little spoon more carefully. She worked in slow, deliberate moves to avoid making mistakes, which tore at my fucking chest. She was terrified of messing up and I had to show her that no matter what she did, I wouldn’t go anywhere.
“You’re a good helper,” I told her. “Wanna pour a pancake?”
She nodded.
“Now if you pour too much, that’s okay. Big pancakes are better than small ones. Right?”
She nodded again, her smile bigger and more comfortable.
I relaxed a little with each smile she gifted me. Guilt twisted in my gut with every smile, though. I should’ve been able to protect her from all this shit. From her own fucking mother. The whole damn world. From whatever nightmares still lived in her mind.
“Okay, Pancake Chef, what are we doing next?” The morning passed in a comfortable quiet while Eliana typed, Zoya drew, and I wrestled with my guilt while I watched them. Eliana was caught up in this because of her connection to me and Zoya was in this because I failed to protect her.
The landline rang again and I knew it was no fucking coincidence. The hairs on the back of my neck shot straight up as the phone continued to ring until I got to my feet to pick it up. “Yeah,” I growled angrily.
There was a staticky pause and then, “You have a collect call from Florence McClure Women’s Correctional Center. To accept, please press one.”
I pressed one and waited.
“Sledge.” That voice, brittle and tinny, was familiar.
Anger pumped through me as I gripped the phone tighter. “What the fuck do you want Trish?” She had a lot of goddamn nerve calling my house, using that syrupy voice that only pissed me off.
She hesitated, regrouping to try another angle. “I wanted to… I wanted to talk to Zoya.”
“No fucking way.”
“Come on,” she whined. “It’s been years.”
“Not enough fucking years. You did enough damage, don’t you think?” I looked over my shoulder and saw Eliana push away from the table, grabbing Zoya to get her out of earshot of this conversation. “Thank you,” I mouthed to her.
“She’s my daughter too.”
I laughed but there was no humor in that shit. “It’s too fucking bad you couldn’t remember that when she was with you.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Why are you calling, Trish, and don’t fucking lie to me.” She wanted something. She always had a fucking angle.
“I got married,” she said as if that was supposed to get a reaction out of me.
“And?”
“And…” she sighed heavily. “I’d like to see my daughter. I want her to meet her stepfather.”
I barked out a loud, angry laugh. “I guess you still got access to drugs in prison because you must be fucking high if you think that’s ever gonna happen. You signed away your rights, remember?”
“She’s still my child.”
“Legally, she’s not. You gave up your rights Trish, and you will never fucking see my daughter again. You have no fucking clue what you’ve done.” I sighed, shaking my head. “Is that the only reason you called?”
She sniffled for about thirty seconds, until it was clear I wasn’t falling for her shit. “I just want to talk to her. I know I fucked up, Sledge but I want to make things right.”
“If you want to make things right, get your shit together. Do your time, get clean and maybe when you get out, we can talk about visitation. That’s if she wants to talk to you.” Zoya would be nearly twenty when Trish got out of prison.
“You want me to—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you do, Trish. What I’m telling you is that you or whatever cum stain you conned into marrying you, won’t ever see or talk to my daughter. Period.”
“I’m married now,” she began. “I could petition for custody.”
“From prison?” I laughed again. “You do what you have to do, Trish. Don’t call her again. Or else.” I slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, which made me feel a little better but not much.
Trish was playing at something, I knew it, but I had no fucking clue what. Not yet.
But when I found out, I’d make the bitch regret the day she was born.
But first I needed more intel. I found my cell phone and called Slate. “Hey man, I got something else I need you to look into.”
He sighed. “This is becoming a habit, Sledge.”
I laughed. “Trish got married.”
He was silent. “Isn’t she doing more than a decade behind bars?”
“Yep,” I answered, amusement growing with every second. “I need to know who this fucker is and if he knew Trish before prison.”
“I’ll add it to the list.” He ended the call before I could thank him, because he knew I always did.